by Troy Denning
Svanhild and I waited a few minutes for the flood of workers to slow to a rush, then pushed our way onto the Force Bridge. It was a long, arcing structure wide enough to allow three dray wagons to travel abreast. But a quarter of the way across, where it was undergoing repairs, it was encased in a skeleton of wooden scaffolds and narrowed to the width of a single donkey cart. Here, Svanhild and I mounted Halah and used her bulk to push our way through the flood of workers, and it was not long before we crested the top of the bridge.
Even with dusk falling, the sight ahead took my breath away. Before us loomed the rubble pile I had glimpsed upon entering the city, a veritable mountain of broken stone and splintered timbers. Here and there I saw the jagged remains of a tower, or a section of marble wall, or a thousand paces of straight furrow that had once been a street—but mostly, I saw a jumble of thousands upon thousands upon thousands of square-edged boulders.
“In the name of the One, what is it?”
Svanhild hung her chin over my shoulder. “The Ruins—what used to be Zhentil Keep.”
“Then what is that?” I waved my arm at the city we had just left.
“That was the Foreign Quarter. General Vrakk and his orcs saved it from the giants when they destroyed the bridges. They were acting on the One’s orders, of course.”
“Of course.” Mystra’s spell compelled me to add nothing, for at the time I did not know this to be a lie.
As Halah descended the other side of the arched bridge, I noticed that a few blocks of the old city were being rebuilt near the river shore. The buildings all seemed fortresses unto themselves, with no doors or windows or portals of any kind on the first two floors. They could only be entered via a long set of wooden stairs that ascended three stories to a fortified drawbridge. This caused a shudder to run down my spine, for I could only imagine what creatures would warrant such precautions.
When we reached the bottom of the bridge, a spindly figure no taller than myself slipped out of the shadows and startled Halah. She reared, dumping Svanhild onto the muddy road behind us, then turned to lash the intruder with her hooves.
The spindly figure fell to his knees and covered his head. “In the Name of the One, don’t kill me!” It was Durin, a brother of the temple. “And if you kill me, don’t let your horse eat me!”
Halah set her hooves down without doing either.
“Where are the others?” Svanhild demanded, gathering herself up. “We were to gather here.”
“Following the Great Annihilator,” Durin whispered. He pointed into the shadows behind him. “Thir spotted him as she came down the bridge—and he was alone!”
Svanhild jerked Durin to his feet. “Then why are you still groveling? Show us the way!” She shoved him into the shadows, then raised her arm to me. “I can’t believe our luck!”
I grabbed her hand and pulled her onto Halah’s back. “Indeed, I cannot believe it either.”
Forty-One
The Seraph of Death entered the heaven called Mechanus exactly where he intended, in the night sky over Everwatch Castle, the citadel of Helm the Vigilant. The fortress was a heaven unto itself, which made it larger than any kingdom in Faerûn. It consisted of five concentric wards of five sides each. Every few minutes, a great clunk would sound deep beneath the ground, then the entire realm would shudder and turn exactly one-fifth of a circle.
The innermost ward was larger than the entire City of Brilliance, which is very large indeed, and in the heart of this ward stood Helm’s looming keep, Watchful Tower. The tower had five sides and rose five floors above any building in Everwatch. The uppermost story was ringed by an iron balcony and enclosed by walls of glass, and it was inside this glass room that Mystra’s prison sat, with the Great Guardian standing watch outside on the iron balcony.
The Seraph of Death waited until Everwatch turned another fifth of a circle and carried Helm off to look in a different direction, then swooped down to within a halberd’s length of the balcony rail. He hovered there, staring through the glass at Mystra’s prison. It looked less like a black box than a square of emptiness, for that part of the chamber seemed not to exist at all—which was exactly the case.
A great clunk sounded below, and Watchful Tower turned another fifth of a circle.
Avner swung his shoulder satchel around to his belly. Though the bag looked empty, it was filled with all kinds of equipment, including the items he had asked for from Kelemvor’s Judgment Hall. The Seraph withdrew three silver hooks and hung them in a long line across the empty air. Then he reached into the pouch and grabbed a corner of the perfect mirror he had borrowed from Kelemvor’s throne room. As he pulled, the mouth of the satchel kept expanding, and though the mirror was twice as wide as he was tall, he had no trouble withdrawing one whole end.
The gears clunked, and Watchful Tower turned again.
The Seraph of Death reached around behind the mirror and found a golden thread he had affixed to the back. He hung this line over the first silver hook, then he flew backward, pulling the mirror from the satchel and trailing the golden thread over the remaining two hooks. When he finished, the mirror hung securely in the empty air.
Watchful Tower turned again.
Avner flew around behind the mirror, then reached into his satchel and withdrew a small square of enchanted glass. He pressed this to the mirror’s back, so he could see what occurred on the other side. Next, he removed a magic parchment and rolled it into a cone, then began gently flapping his wings to hover in place. He willed his breathing to slow and begged his heart to stop pounding so loudly and settled in to wait.
Avner had no wish to give up being the Seraph of Death—but Avner’s wishes did not matter. Kelemvor had changed; no longer did he care for the plight of any mortal spirit. If Avner did not win Mystra’s freedom and redeem himself with Mask, Lord Death would damn him to the same cruel punishment as that of any Faithless spirit.
Watchful Tower turned again, and Helm swung around to face the perfect mirror.
“Halt!”
In his surprise, Helm did not realize he was staring at his own reflection. The weary figure before him was a balding, long-faced warrior with shoulders drooping beneath the sadness of more than one world.
“Who goes there?” demanded Helm.
The seraph held the cone of parchment to his lips and spoke. “You know who.” The words seemed to emerge from the mirror, for the lips in the glass moved with Avner’s, and the voice sounded the same as Helm’s. “If you cannot recognize me, it has been too long since you have raised your visor.”
“What?” gasped the god.
The Vigilant One leaned across the railing and peered more closely at the figure. The armor matched his own, save that it was tarnished with age and battered with the dents of a thousand battles. The shield bore his sacred Gauntlet-and-Eye, and the sword hanging at the old man’s side carried the same giant ruby in its pommel. Yet this knight did not hold himself square and proud, as did Helm; this knight let his shoulders sag and his back hunch, and he fixed his gaze on the ground at his feet, and he looked as lonely and dejected as any captive who had ever sat in Watchful Tower.
The gears of Mechanus clunked, and the tower swung away, carrying Helm off to look in a new direction.
The Vigilant One manifested a second avatar on the balcony, then realized he was gazing at his own reflection. He saw the rail in his hand, and the iron floor beneath his feet, and the glass walls at his back—but one thing he did not see, since Kelemvor had made the mirror to show matters as they truly were and Mystra’s prison was made of nothing.
“This cannot be!”
The Vigilant One whirled around, then staggered back when he saw the black box still sitting behind the glass. He stared at it for a long time, then turned and stared at the reflection in the mirror for many moments more. The box appeared to be missing.
And during all these moments, Avner hovered behind the mirror worrying. He knew a god could create many avatars, but he had assumed Helm w
ould simply walk along the balcony to stay before the mirror. Instead, the god had manifested a new avatar when the tower turned, and now the seraph had to deal with not one god, but two.
Everwatch Castle shuddered, and the gears clunked, and Watchful Tower turned again. Helm manifested a third avatar on the balcony. Avner stifled a groan; all he could do was wait.
The Vigilant One looked back into the mirror. The reflection of Mystra’s prison remained absent.
“What spell is this?” Helm demanded.
“No spell—unless Mystra has escaped.” Again, Avner spoke into the parchment cone, though now he found it difficult to feign a confident voice. “Only Mystra’s magic could deceive you.”
When Helm made no reply, Avner remained silent, allowing the Vigilant One to ponder the unpleasant choices: either Mystra had escaped and cast a spell to create the image in the mirror, or what Helm saw in the mirror was true.
He of the Unsleeping Eyes spent many moments contemplating how his own reflection could look so different. He saw that it might be an image of his true nature, for mortals and gods alike still bristled at him for obeying Ao’s command during the Time of Troubles and confining his fellows to Faerûn.
And yet, the Vigilant One could not believe that he was the sad figure in the mirror. Like the mortals who venerated him, he took it on faith that those who performed their duty would always be rewarded. If this was not so for himself, how could he ask his worshipers to accept it for themselves?
On this account, Helm decided the image in the mirror was false. This comforted him; it meant he was still a proud guardian and Mystra still imprisoned in his tower—but then he remembered what such a deception implied. The Goddess of Magic could not be inside her prison, since only she could deceive him and she was cut off from the Weave by her prison’s walls of nothingness. Yet how could she be anywhere else, since escape was impossible?
The gears of Mechanus sent a shudder through the castle. Watchful Tower turned once again, carrying Helm away from the mirror. He manifested a fourth avatar on the balcony. Then, while this one continued to watch the mirror, the other three passed through the glass walls and went over to Mystra’s prison.
In a single voice, they called, “Lady Magic?”
Mystra made no answer. She had been listening to everything that had happened outside and, believing Kelemvor had come to rescue her, had no wish to help her jailer.
Avner reached into his satchel and withdrew a small shadow shaped like a bird, which was a memory he had asked of Kelemvor. He cupped it gently in his hands and puffed his breath upon it, causing the wings to rise and stretch.
“Mystra?” Helm’s voice grew more cautious. Being much practiced in the art of jailing, he knew that a captive’s silence could mean many things—and the least of these was that she had escaped. “Answer me, Lady Magic.”
Avner opened his hands. The little shadow flew away and cried out the words that Kelemvor had once heard the goddess exclaim, after a pair of their heroes had destroyed a lich: “Goodbye and good riddance!”
At once, Helm manifested a fifth avatar in the empty air. He searched for the source of the goddess’s voice, but the memory had vanished as soon as it fulfilled its purpose. The three avatars surrounding Mystra’s prison drew their swords and prepared to look inside.
Avner prayed they would wait a few moments longer. The fourth avatar was still watching the mirror, and he knew better than to think he was quicker than a god.
The three avatars kneeled beside the box of black nothingness, each at a different side.
The gears of Mechanus clunked again, and Watchful Tower turned, carrying the fourth avatar away. Avner looked at the three avatars surrounding Mystra’s prison, and he saw them lean forward to push their heads through the walls. He flew from his hiding place and was behind one of them in the blink of an eye. He angled toward the glass wall and crashed through, moving as swiftly as a stone falls from the heavens.
“This way, Mystra!” he shouted.
Before Avner finished his sentence, Helm’s fourth avatar rushed in from the balcony to intercept him. This did not matter. The seraph was still flying, and as the Vigilant One stepped in front of him, he lowered his head and crashed into the god.
Had Helm been standing with his sword firmly in hand and both feet braced on the floor, the seraph would certainly have bounced off his chest and perished beneath the god’s gleaming blade. But the Vigilant One was still drawing his weapon and just turning to position himself. Avner’s desperate attack unbalanced him and sent him crashing into another avatar.
This impact sent the unsuspecting avatar tumbling through the wall of nothingness, and Mystra saw at once what the mysterious voice outside had intended. She launched herself at the feet of the falling guardian, diving out of her prison through the same hole by which her captor was entering. The goddess saw Helm’s fourth avatar looming above her, flying back at her from the force of the seraph’s blow, and she thought she would be pushed back into the box of nothingness.
Then the avatar vanished, and she found herself lying on the floor next to the battered Seraph of Death. Mystra saw at once that she had escaped, for the instant Helm’s avatar had fallen completely into the prison, the Vigilant One had lost all his godly powers and his avatars had disappeared. She leapt to her feet, knowing it would not be long before Tyr saw what had occurred and called upon Ao to free the Vigilant One. Before Avner could so much as moan, she dispatched eight avatars to Faerûn to answer the calls of her Faithful and undo the damage Talos had done to her church. She sent another aspect to visit Kelemvor in the City of the Dead, and only then did she kneel beside her broken rescuer.
“You have my gratitude, Avner.” Mystra saw that when the seraph had struck Helm, he had snapped his neck and torn both of his wings and shattered one of his shoulders. As she spoke, she began to straighten all the breaks. “I shall tell your master of your bravery. Kelemvor will reward you well.”
Avner shook his head. “No … Kelemvor is no longer … my master. Mask … sent me.”
“Mask?” The goddess straightened Avner’s neck, then enclosed it in her hands and allowed her healing magic to flow into him. “That cannot be. Mask has more reason than anyone to keep me imprisoned.”
“Perhaps—but he did not expect me to succeed.”
Now that his neck had been repaired, the seraph found it much easier to speak. As the goddess healed the rest of his injuries, he told her of how Kelemvor had decided to reassess all his judgments as God of Death, and Avner also explained how Mask had given him a chance to become the Seraph of Thieves by assigning him the impossible task of freeing her. When he finished, Mystra had healed all his wounds.
They stood, and the goddess said, “Avner, you should not be seraph to a low god like Mask. I shall intercede with Kelemvor, and you will remain the Seraph of Death.”
Avner shook his head sadly. “I do not think so, Goddess. Lord Death has changed. The old Kelemvor is gone, and I fear even you cannot bring him back.”
Forty-Two
Brother Durin led us through the shattered remnants of the old Harbor Ward Gate, then turned down a slippery river of mud that served as the main boulevard of the City Rebuilt. Dusk had fallen and plunged the borough into shadows as purple as the One’s sacred vestments. The last of the masons and day laborers had vanished across the bridge, and now only the denizens remained, peering down at us from the arrow loops and third-story drawbridges of their fortress homes. The street stank of seaweed and fish entrails and all the other things anyone saw fit to dump into it, and so deep was this slime that Halah’s hooves made sucking sounds as she carried Svanhild and me forward.
About a third of the way through the City Rebuilt, which is to say no more than a hundred paces down the boulevard, someone hissed at Durin from the shadows. He turned down a narrow lane between two buildings and vanished into the darkness. As I guided Halah after him, I thought of the burly guards who had perished in the alley where we had
hidden earlier, and a shudder ran down my spine. They had died within the “civilized” confines of the walled city. Here in the Ruins, I doubted that even the One knew what might be lurking around any corner.
In this alley, the lurker happened to be Armod, a brother of the temple almost as gaunt and filth-covered as Durin. Armod led us through a maze of lanes so black I could scarcely see my hand before my face, and the whole time I kept thinking what a splendid place this was for an ambush. Yet nothing happened except that I felt many eyes watching us from above, and once a stray dog barked from a muddy alcove. Here Svanhild and I had to dismount and stand in the quagmire as Halah tried to make a snack of the dog, but her neck was not long enough to reach the back of his den, and after a few minutes we were allowed to remount.
We emerged from this maze of alleys to find Sister Kelda waiting behind the jagged vestiges of the Harbor Ward wall. She took Armod’s place as guide and led us forward, and the gloomy citadels of the City Rebuilt were replaced by shadowy piles of rubble. The sound of Halah’s hooves changed from a regular slurp to an unpredictable clatter, and the light of the full moon shone down to pave our way in glimmering silver.
The stench of the Harbor Ward vanished, and Svanhild grew less tense behind me. She leaned forward and brought her lips close to my ear.
“Why did you come to Zhentil Keep?” she whispered. “You must know the Cyrinishad is gone. We spent an entire year sending letters to important True Believers.”
“You didn’t send one to me,” I retorted. “But I do know of the letter you sent my Caliph.”
“So, why are you here?”
I held my tongue, for I had no wish to blurt out the truth to this woman. Fzoul might have stayed in his tower all day, watching and wondering when we would arrive—or someone might have told him we were coming at dusk, and that someone could be Svanhild as easily as any other of Zhentil Keep’s acolytes.